I'm Not A Floor Host, I'm A Janitor With A Bus Driving Problem. Or, At Some Point In Every Man's Life, His Prostate Will Declare Itself An Independent Entity And Civil War Will Ensue.

  I don't really Floor Host at my job. 'Floor Hosting' means you set up champagne rooms, sell bottles and get idiots fake strip club money on their credit cards. I rarely get to do any of those things any more. I'm more or less kept around to do the jobs no one else wants to do. Like drive the bus, work the door and sweep the dead strippers into the drain at closing time.


  And I'm of two minds about it. One one hand I feel like I'm achieving my goal of having as little interaction as possible with as few people as I can manage. The bus especially is a social wasteland except for brief bouts of bachelor parties and the odd hammered out-of-towner.


  On the other hand I hate when it comes time to divvy up the tips and I'm consistently one of the low earners because I so rarely get the opportunity to try to hustle up some tips from drunk morons with expense accounts. I feel like a Father that can't provide for his family, except that my children are guns and I can't afford to have any more of them nor feed the ones I already possess.


  It's like some kind of moral struggle within me: I enjoy not being around people, yet people are what I need to make money. It is a paradox, wrapped in an enigma, inside a colostomy.


  And shit.




  In related news, I keep falling into the same work ethic trap of not being able to say "no" to my managers. My parents really fucked me good with this one. I remember one time when my Dad had wrecked his motorcycle and the whole side of his face was like a shattered can of cat food. He looked like Ahnold in The Terminator after half his face was shot off; a complete mess.


  Did my Pop call off work? Nope. Did he take time out of his busy day to have his sloppy-joe face tended to at a medical facility? Certainly not. He was too busy trying to pay his bills. It was only when his face swelled up so bad his eye was closed and weeping tears of pus that he went to the hospital where they just barely managed to save his eye.

                               "I'll put some Neosporin on it when I get back from work."







  Was my Mom any better? Nope. She came down with mono hepatitis one time when I was about 9 or so. Although it was clearly killing her she never missed a shift. It was only when her supervisor stopped her and said "You're too sick to work" that Mum agreed and fell to the floor and got seventeen I.V's immediately rammed into her to save her life.

                                                "Can you....get me..... some overtime?"
"





  This is the programming I'm up against. My parents almost had to be forced at gunpoint to miss work and indoctrinated me into this irrational mindset. I liken it to being Catholic: you know what you've been taught is bullshit, but you've been force fed it for so long that you can't help but believe it.


  So when management asked me if I could cover a kitchen shift tonight because our latest alcoholic/junkie cook had gotten thrown into jail for throwing a tire iron at police during a drug house raid, my brain said 'no' while my fingers typed "yeah, I guess so" #cunt #fuckyourquesadilla.






  The further complications of growing older, or shit my prostate says.




  When I was younger and I really, REALLY had to piss, I could cut plywood in half with my stream. It was like a golden hued plasma cutter issuing forth from my otherwise unremarkable member. Nowadays, even when I need to piss URGENTLY, I'm lucky if I could rinse off a dinner plate at two feet.


  I don't know how large my prostate is right now, but I'd bet it's much bigger than a walnut at this point, in fact I'm thinking coconut or casaba melon. And while it doesn't hurt, it makes a huge deal out of routine urination and I think it conspires with my colon to cause me undue social anxiety.

                             "Woodja like tae wee taday, laddie? Whut's it werth tae ye?"






  That being said here are some conversation/arguments I've had with my prostate recently. Please bear in mind that for reasons unknown even to me, my prostate speaks with a thick Scots accent.*1






ME: I can't help noticing that you've been lacking in oomph and sending mixed signals lately. Is there anything you want to talk about?


MY PROSTATE: Whatturye implyin, ya greet fat chairwhale?


ME: Well, you know. Frequent urges to go, disappointing muzzle velocity, phantom pee notices. Stuff like that. I was just thinking that maybe it's all a bit premature.


MY PROSTATE: Tell yoo whut, lad. Next time ye fiel the need tae dispoorage mah werk ethic, why dooncha carve yer coomplaint oonto a parsnip and shoove it oop yer fookin arse! That way I'll be shure tae read it.


ME: Christ man! I'm just sayin! No need for all the hostility. We're in this together, OK?


MY PROSTATE: "We're in this toogettir, OOH-KAY!" (in a high mocking voice.) That what yoo soond like. Quit bleatin like a weddin night ship*2 and deal with yer elder pooberty!*3


ME: Goddamn. You are one angry pink ping pong ball, my friend.


MY PROSTATE: Aye. I am at that. Don't make me crool oota yer wee pahthetic willy, freeclimb your greet, stinkin toorso and slap seven kinds of shite oota ye. Cooz I'll doo it. Ye ken I wull.


ME: Oh you'll climb me, will you? And how do you intend to do that? I'm like 80% sure you've got no fucking hands.


MY PROSTATE: I'll use veins and whatnot then, woon't I? Maybe I'll even drag yer puir, mismatched boolz aloong wit meh and use em as sticky boots. What'd'ye tink o'that?


ME: I think you're a monster!


MY PROSTATE: AAAAAHHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!







  I hope you've all enjoyed this installment's lurid depictions of my travails and feel better about your life after reading it. Be here next time when I reveal some strip club secrets they don't want you to know and tell you about the latest strippers I've worked with who have since died horribly.


  Until then, cheers mowwa-fakkas.

-Uncle Herdy












*1 Just like my wang, Wee Willy Wallace.





*2 Ship: Sheep. Sorta like tomato/to-mah-to.




*3 Elder Pooberty: What Scot speaking internal organs call the changes that happen to middle aged folks. Like menopause and manopause.

Why Don't You Take Your Droopy, National Geographic Titties The Fuck Out Of Here And Die On A Highway Somewhere. Or, Death By Bus-True Tales Of Shuttlecide.

  Tonight was a night that had me questioning everything. Do I want to continue in this industry? Do I have the gumption to actually show up tomorrow, or should I drink myself into a wretched ball of shit stained misery that mewls piteously every time the manager calls wondering where the fuck I am?


  Should I start looking for another job? Should I just wreak vengeance upon those that have wronged me before dining on a shotgun shell?


  Do I even give a fuck about anything any more?



  Is the whole 'Murrican experience worth slogging through as I age ungracefully and become a crusty cunt with naught but hatred in my soul?


  These are questions worth answering and I had to look deep into my soul tonight in search of elucidation. I don't really care for what waved back from the abyss, but it's not like I didn't know what lived in the depths. I simply chose to ignore the warning ripples indicative of a submerged leviathan.


  I told my manager, Sir Razorwit Humphrey McAngrystein that I was done driving the shuttle and that if, in fact, I have to drive it tomorrow night, that he can expect to pick pieces of dead idiot's scalps out of the grill as the cops haul me off to jail for gleeful vehicular slaughter.


  And I would laugh, I informed him.


  


Oh how I would fucking laugh....*1



  A small consolation of the evening was that I DID get to pick up a problem customer by his hair and testicles and throw him out onto the sidewalk. He was being ripped off by a dancer that I seriously hate and as their argument became more heated, he shoved her. He did not, at the time, seem to realize I was right behind him. Even though I secretly hoped that somehow she would die or get paralyzed from his tiny attack, it gave me the opportunity to scoop him up from behind*2 by his sack and quasi-gay rooster-comb hairdo, open the door with his ribcage, and hurl him to the cement.


  And I'll tell ya, if fucking felt good. The 'whumph' of the air leaving his lungs on impact was like a beloved song that I hadn't heard in too long. And to make everything even better, we never did get the money for the babbon-mammaried tree-slut.


 



  To finish this installment off, while the fury still burns hot, I'm going to elaborate briefly on notes I sent myself from my phone during the bullshit parade.







 -I'm handicapped, hence I will park in a handicapped spot. 

 
  I find it repugnant when someone who is a fucking liar and cheat pretends to be handicapped so they can take advantage of a reserved spot. The reason I bring this up is because I work with a girl who has a handicapped placard in her minivan and uses it to park in spots reserved for people with real disabilities.

 
  This bitch will climb to the top of our twenty foot pole and hang upside down and twirl around and shit. She is clearly not disabled in the fucking slightest and yet she feels that it's perfectly OK to take up some deserving person's spot because she has her Mom's placard.


  She giggles when I bring it up to her. She thinks it's amusing that she gets away with it.




  -Instead of firing a conniving, pot bellied gangster jizz-sponge, I choose to yell at Floor Guys.

 
  As a Mana-Jur it's much more acceptable and yet much less effective to scream at a Floor Snizz than to actually fire a slack-breasted, over-gutted criminal drunk. Nevermind the fact that until recently we regularly allowed this crunt*3 to cannon off in her Hyundai completely wasted, endangering every living thing on the freeway at 3am; rodents included.

  Now however, we have a breathalyzer. And when he can be bothered, Sir Razorwit checks our outgoing strippers for BAC's. I mention this because the other night, Crunt insisted she was OK to drive. We were skeptical because it sounded like she was saying "Imshokay to knrive".

  So we hit her with the breathalyzer and she blew a .27. That's over three times the legal limit, folks.


  So we waited until she was only twice the legal limit and shoved her out the door. Problem solved.



 

  -He steel owes me nine doooolars!


 
  We have this crazy eastern european bitch. She's from Jizzbakistan or some such country that has little to no relevance beyond it's natural gas reserves. So she lands a room with this local rich guy, a business-drunk who owns parts of three very successful clubs in The Town™.

  Long story short this drunk, rich moron gets a bunch of singles, like $600 worth, then decides to go into a champagne room instead of throwing it on stage. Which is the only reason you'd get $600 worth of singles in the first place.

  So he pays for a half hour room ($300) in singles. This sucks but what are you gonna do? I take one stack of hundreds as the club's cut and hand her the remaining two bundles of $100. I didn't fucking count it because why would I? A) He's rich and B) Who fucking cares?


  Well at the end of the night Eastern Europa comes up to me and complains that money-boy had only given her $191. Nine goddamn dollars shy of what she should have made. I explain to her that this dude regularly comes to the club and spends at least a grand every time and that if she becomes one of his favorites, then she's guaranteed to make a couple hundred bucks every time he comes in.

  But no, she was all ex-soviet ANALBLAST about nine fucking dollars and as a result he will NEVER do a room with her again.

  Stupid bitch. Like my seventeen years of experience in this industry count for nothing....






I don't feel like doing pictures, I feel like eating tacos,

-The StripperHerder












*1 I drove the bus through catastrophic traffic tonight for seven hours and made $5 in tips for my torment.





*2 I'm not nearly as strong as I used to be, but if this little prick weighed more that 170 lbs, I'll eat my own duck butter.




*3 Crunt: short for Crazy-Cunt.